


Ingredients of Love

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Baking, Community: holmestice, Domestic, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hidden Talents, Historical Accuracy, Love, M/M, Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Sweet Sherlock, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12593780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: To cheer up his Watson, Sherlock Holmes surprises him with making a cake in the kitchen of 221B. Something sweet, something extra.A tale about so much more than Victorian baking.





	Ingredients of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elwinglyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/gifts), [SCFrankles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/gifts), [doctornerdington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/gifts).



_Mrs Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the world;_  
_therefore Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest and most comfortable man"_  
(Arthur Conan Doyle)

 

It happened on an ordinary day in October towards the end of the century.

After lunch, Holmes had returned to his chair and had picked up the newspapers. He was smoking his pipe and sipped from time to time at a cup of tea. I, sitting opposite Holmes, tried to concentrate on a novel, but my thoughts meandered. With every minute ticking by, my eyes wandered more to the flickering flames of the fireplace than the words on the page.

Autumn had reached London and with it cold nights and foggy days. The temperature had dropped considerably and so had my mood. My joints ached horribly, and if it was not my old shoulder wound that reminded me of the terrors of war, it was the approaching All Hollow’s Eve, that brought the unpleasant memories of war and death upon me.

Only from afar, I registered that the clock on our mantelpiece had struck the hour. All of a sudden, Holmes exclaimed: “Come along, old boy!”

“What? Where are we going?” I asked, but there was no reply.

I expected him to usher me out of our living room, to hurry me with getting my coat, hat and walking stick, to maybe even hear the carriage of Lestrade approaching 221B, in short, our daily routine.

 

* * *

 

Imagine my surprise when Holmes instead took me by the hand and led me downstairs, all the seventeen steps into the entrance hall, and into Mrs Hudson’s work- and living space.

Never before had I set foot into the relatively large room in broad daylight. After all, the kitchen and the household management were not the domain of gentlemen. If I had to estimate, I would guess it had the measurements of our living room, with a tiled floor, a big wooden table in the middle, one cupboard for the dishes and the better china on display as is the fashion nowadays. One cupboard to hold the kitchen utensils; some shining copper pots and pans hanging up. There was the kitchen range; cleaned until it was spotless, even though the years of daily use were apparent; here the sink which I knew Mrs Hudson was particularly proud of because indoor plumbing inside the house was still uncommon. The cast iron stove was the heart of the room just like in every other kitchen.

“Holmes, what is the meaning of all this? Is it for a case? The abominable baker who last week’s newspaper reported had tampered with the dough to expand his profits but at the horrible risk of its buyers? Is this why you brought us here?”

“No, Watson.”

“An experiment?”

“No.”

“What is it then, Holmes?”

“Think, Watson. It is neither a case nor an experiment. We are both in the kitchen, alone. Observe and deduce. What can it be?”

“Something more….” I realized that my cheeks had heated. I cleared my throat and lowered my voice, even though we were alone, “... of a more _personal_ nature.”

“Close, Watson. Even though I intended for a more….” Now it was Holmes who searched for words: “... _emotional_ motive.”

I looked at him expectantly.

“We are going to bake a cake; a seed cake, to be precise. A very good version, as ‘Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management’ assured me.”

For a second I was not sure if I understood him correctly. Was I; were we, truly standing in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen? Was it the cold surface of the kitchen range I felt in my back? I knew that Holmes's interest were peculiar but household management seemed so outlandish. I could not rein myself in, and started to laugh. Holmes looked at me, irritated.

“Apologies, Holmes. It is just... We have done so many unusual things, and I have invaded Afghanistan, but the two of us in a kitchen! Oh, the things you get me into, old man!”

“This is what you call unusual, Watson? Should I remind you of all our unique encounters and little adventures? You have written them down and made them more sensational in your tales in _The Strand_.”

“Oh, hush, Holmes. You know all too well that we share, one might say, a peculiar peculiarity. I tamper with the truth in _The Strand_ to protect the life we have chosen. It should sound so astonishing that the reader will never imagine how we are behind closed doors. Let them have their flights of fancy...

“...so you can fancy me.”

We shared a boyish grin. As I saw him extract a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers, which I assumed to be the recipe of this very good version of caraway seed cake Holmes had mentioned.

“So, you really intend to bake a cake, Holmes? You were not speaking in jest?”

“Since when do you know me as a man to jest? And toward you, of all people, John.”

“But Holmes... why?”

Holmes did not answer in words. He only fixed me with a stare, I looked in his beautiful eyes, and there I could read the truth in plain, simple words: because he saw me wallowing and wanted to cheer me up. Because he was afraid of the demons that plagued my soul, demons, he knew far too well. Because he loved me.

 

The cake was a gift.

Something simple, something extra.

I had to kiss him, and so I did.

 

* * *

 

Before we got carried away and truly used one of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen surfaces, or, God forbid, the big wooden table in the middle of the room, for more _personal_ use, I put some physical distance between us.

“I believe that we have a cake to bake.”

We got to work.

Holmes ordered me around, taking out this and that from Mrs Hudson’s larder. Probably leaving behind a mess; we would be scolded like schoolchildren later. At his request, I got butter out of the icebox and eggs out of the cupboard store. Sugar and flour were easily found as the tins were labelled; yes, Mrs Hudson was a good housekeeper. I was not sure whether or not I could spot the difference in sugar and salt, and what a difference it would make! My mother’s recipe surely had the caraway seeds, but nothing as fancy as nutmeg or even a wineglass of brandy. I have to admit I had to think for a moment that the latter was for drinking and not for baking!

Holmes took great joy in the whole process. Unlike his chemical experiments in which I mostly only got a “hush, Watson” or “help!” when something went amiss, here, today, I was like a laboratory assistant.

“Do you know what one could deduce from a common seed cake, Watson?”

“I am not sure, Holmes, what one could deduce from a common seed cake but I am certain you will tell me in time.”

“The seed cake is one of Britain’s oldest recipes. However, it stopped being popular in the early years of our Queen’s reign. The common seed cake is therefore typical of the rural baking in the countryside. For centuries, it had the status of a luxury item for special occasions like harvest, the holidays etc, and for the better-off clients. As you know all too well, with the industrial revolution, people came to the cities and transformed our society forever. Cheap bread would feed the ever-growing nation, and “seed cake” would never be produced again. You yourself were drawn to the melting pot of London when you returned home from war. That even today, with the new century approaching, the wheel will not turn back – as if it ever would – you can spot it easily in the habits and appearance of my brother Mycroft. You have seen him in his Diogenes Club, Watson. He is enormous. Of course, a man like him will never go personally to one of the new shops on Kensington High Street. There is no place any more for something so common as seed cake, not even the very good version we are making today. It is time for pastry and all the new recipes named after our Queen. Which means, my dear Watson, that one can identify time and location from something as simple as a seed cake. Seed cake is so typical of the beginning of Queen Victoria’s reign and in particular the English countryside, and more the North of our country, that knowledge of its existence, taste and even recipe, can give away a lot about one’s biography.”

“This is all very informative, Holmes, but how does it work in practice?”

Holmes smiled at me, warm and affectionate. It was his private smile, the one that only I can see, and only on rare occasions. It is the face of a man who loves to share his knowledge with a rapt audience. And I am, after all, his Boswell.

“Take us, Watson. If I had not deduced your origin by your brother’s watch then your eating habits would have given me insight into your past. You lost your accent after years spent at university, later in the army, and now, alongside me in London. Your clothes and most of your personal belongings are gone. However, your eyes lit up with recognition when I presented you with the recipe a few minutes ago. You know it so well, that you do not even need to taste it, your memory works in your, or should I say, the detective’s favour. You cannot get the seed cake nowadays, so you could not have got a taste for it after you moved to London. You, old boy, know the seed cake because for years you have seen it made, and maybe, because the flour bags are very heavy and you have a curiosity, had even helped to prepare it. You can barely make out one of my experiments in the lab, but you did not even have to see all the ingredients of this recipe to deduce its name. So: John Watson, country-bred, from the North of England, born before 1870s. How did I do.”

“Splendid, as always, Holmes.”

“And Watson, you could deduce about my heritage as well. Or, maybe about my occupation. Do you want to give it a try?”

“You knew about the seed cake because otherwise you would not make the connection. There are two possible conclusions: one, that you knew about the existence of the cake for the same reasons I do: childhood memories. Or, you learnt about it in your line of work. I do know that you have an index and your mind palace and God knows what else to store all the little titbits of our world. Most people would probably choose the latter because they would assume – as I wrongly did – that you are not from the countryside. However, and I hope that you were not deceiving me, Holmes; you said that your family are country squires. They were the preferred consumers of such baked goods and as I am well aware that you and your brother alike – don’t scoff, Holmes – are very fond of those, it would make a solid thesis to assume that you know about seed cake – just like me – from childhood days.”

“Bravo, Watson. You know me well.”

We got back to work; now, we were both sharing the space around the wooden table. Holmes ordered me to beat the butter to a cream. I dredged the flour. I added the sugar, mace, nutmeg and the caraway seeds to the dough. I suggested that when I had stirred the brandy into the cake and had beaten it for another ten minutes, we indulged in a drink. After all, all that was left was to put the dough into a tin lined with buttered paper and wait for it to bake.

The kitchen had become hot with the heat of the oven; to escape for some time into the cooler rooms upstairs seemed heavenly, and, who knows, if Holmes wished for some heat, we could surely think of something...

Holmes did not openly speak about such matters. However, his actions speak volumes. More than I could ever report. He might not say it but days like that day show me how much he loves me.

Simple things, unremarkable for some, that make the difference.

 

* * *

 

The world could never find out. It might be such a small thing, a simple cake, but it had such a strong connotation. I knew the moment we left the kitchen, when we ate the cake, and when we shared it with our family of choice, it would be unspoken that a woman had made it. Let it be a grateful female client or patient, Mrs Hudson or her maid who had baked it. Alternatively, it had been bought, tough even in the case of a common seed cake that would be a lie unwise to tell. Therefore, it would probably have been Mrs Hudson, who was much more than a housekeeper, who would have seen me miserable because of the weather and had, as society expected from a competent and skilled woman, taken matters into her own hands and presented me with a seed cake.

Only for less than half an hour preparation time, could Holmes and I be a household on our own. Only behind closed doors and the house empty of the other members, could we be a unit. Two men who share good days and bad days, and who not only lead a public, professional life but also a private one. For half an hour, we shared not only conversation, companionship and maybe carnal relations while the cake is in the oven, but also the declared common aspect of household chores.

Even when we retire to the countryside, somewhere on the Sussex Downs, as we have spoken about already, there will be a woman from the village to cook and clean. Two men living together might be raising suspicion already, but two men doing basic household chores?

It is the housekeeper, the wife, the maid – it is never a man. Not even when you are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, can you take such liberties in the open.

But I know that he is a wicked man and I am a hopeless romantic, so I guess we will not only take the memories of our respective youth and our shared lives in 221B with us to retirement but also the recipes. Moreover, when a dark mood befalls one of us, or, both, and Mrs Hudson will not be near (and no place for a doting wife!) and the thrill of the chase is over, then it will be the smell and taste and sight of a common seed cake that will bring us comfort.

 

It will sit unassumingly at the table and none will be the wiser.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> "Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management" (1861)  
> Serious and very good cookery book of mid-Victorian and early 19th century recipes. She, her cook and her kitchen maid tried out every recipe in her own kitchen. First criterion: truly economical (very few marked "rich").
> 
> A Very Good Seed-Cake (1776)  
> Ingredients: 1 lb of butter; 6 eggs; ¾ lb of sifted sugar; pounded mace and grated nutmeg to taste; 1 lb of flour; ¾ oz of caraway seeds; 1 wineglass of Brandy  
> Mode: Beat the butter to a cream; dredge the flour; add the sugar, mace, nutmeg, and caraway seeds, and mix these ingredients well together. Whisk the eggs, stir to them the brandy, and beat the cake again – for 10 minutes. Put it into a tin lined with buttered paper, and bake it from 1 ½ to 2 hours.  
> Cost: 2s 6d  
> (www.mrsbeeton.com/35-chapter35.html)
> 
> Learn more about Mrs Beeton and her life in Victorian England, and her famous cook book and its legacy, here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mrs_Beeton%27s_Book_of_Household_Management
> 
> ___________________________________________________
> 
> This fanfic is part of the ACD Holmesfest 2017. It was written for elwinglyre. My beta extraordinaire was scfrankles. Doctornerdington and I are both fans of Mrs. Beeton's ;) You can read the fic at Dreamwidth here: https://acdholmesfest.dreamwidth.org/70299.html?view=1362587&posted=1#cmt1362587


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